


When You Smile

by Daisy_Rivers



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels, F/M, Hamilton References, Supernatural Elements, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Rivers/pseuds/Daisy_Rivers
Summary: A discouraged young actress keeps running into a charming but eccentric guy who seems to know a lot about her.





	When You Smile

**Author's Note:**

> The only significant feature in this alternate New York City universe is that the original Broadway cast of Hamilton did not include the actors who played the roles in reality. In particular, Anthony Ramos did not play Philip Hamilton. Other than that, though, New York is pretty much itself.

He was slim, almost thin, really, with a mop of curly hair. He wore a gray jacket with a white scarf wound around his neck. It was cold enough that he needed the scarf, heaven knows, but he never wore a hat over those curls. Vain about them, maybe.

At the time I was stuck with two bickering roommates, Annie and Megan, and when they weren’t screaming at each other, they were each complaining to me about what a bitch the other one was. None of us could afford to move, and my position of armed neutrality pissed off both of them, so I spent as much time out of the apartment as I could.

The next time somebody told me to follow my dreams, I was going to turn around and run the other way. Here I was, the best little singer, dancer, and actress in East Hopeless, Iowa, and I’d followed my Broadway dreams right into waitressing at Chili’s and living with two people I couldn’t stand because New York City was godawful expensive and cold both literally and metaphorically. I’d sort of had an agent for a while, but she gave up on me, and now I went to open auditions between waitressing shifts and sang my heart out, only to hear every time thanks, but we need someone older, younger, taller, shorter, perkier, or more serious, and with a better looking nose. There was never anything wrong with my nose back in East Hopeless; in fact, I’d never given it a second thought. It was just a thing in the middle of my face that I used for breathing and smelling. That only goes to show you what awaits you when you follow those dreams. A body part you’d lived with comfortably for twenty-two years might sabotage you.

The first time I noticed him was after I’d gotten to a third callback and really, really felt like I was going to get the part. It wasn’t even that great a part, just some off-off thing, and I’d be playing the second lead’s sister, but there were some good lines. The playwright was young, but talented, and would probably be famous someday. My brain had foolishly created fantasies of Future Me saying, _“Brian? Oh, yes, I was in his first play. Oh, sure, off Broadway, but we all knew he’d make it.”_

Well, maybe Brian would make it, but I’d never get to have that conversation because the part went to Emily whose nose, I swear to God, was _exactly_ like mine. I was beyond depressed, and even more broke than usual because I’d bought this cute little outfit for the callback, and here I was in my cute little red miniskirt outfit with my fucking Tall Caffè Latte because I couldn’t afford a Grande, let alone a Venti. I had dumped five packets of sugar in it since it was my lunch, and I was looking for a bench to sit on since the Starbucks had been packed. I was also freezing because a miniskirt isn’t exactly the best attire for thirty-something weather with a brisk wind. I could go back to the apartment to change, but I knew Annie and Megan would both be there, and I just wasn’t up to it. _One of these days,_ I thought, _I’m going to go home and find one of them dead on the floor. The only question is which one._

I had another one of those Future-Me scenes in my head. _“Well, they didn’t get along, officer, but I never thought it would come to this.”_ That would be a lie; in reality, I thought pretty much every day that one of them would kill the other.

Anyway, there he was on a bench, but he was all the way on one end of it, so I sat down on the other end, not making eye contact, because, you know, New York.

“Hey,” he said. I really didn’t pay attention because there were people all around, and I wasn’t even sure he’d spoken to me. I looked at a squirrel across the sidewalk and rubbed my frozen knees with the hand that wasn’t holding the super-sweet Caffè Latte.

“Hey, red-skirt girl,” he said, and I glanced over at him. He smiled. God, that was one killer smile.

“What?” I asked, in a tone so rude it would have shocked the entire community of East Hopeless, Iowa.

“Just hello,” he said, still smiling. His face was dusted with freckles, and the perfect curls hung nearly to his shoulders.

“Hi,” I muttered and took a sip of my rapidly-cooling coffee.

“How you doin’?” he asked, very New York.

“Who are you, Joey Tribbiani?”

He laughed. At least he got the joke. Apparently, he thought I wanted to continue the conversation, so he slid halfway down the bench. I really didn’t want to talk, though. Yeah, he was cute, but I had no room at all in my life for any more drama. I was barely coping as it was.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

I shrugged. I had just been hunched over my coffee rubbing my knees to keep from getting frostbite, so I couldn’t really deny it.

“Here,” he said, taking off his white scarf and holding it out to me. “Put it over your knees.”

I stared at him, wondering if I looked like I was homeless or something, but that seemed unlikely. After all, I was wearing my cute new outfit, and if the jacket I had on over it wasn’t brand new, it wasn’t ragged either.

“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the scarf. It was wider than it had looked, and when I tucked it around my legs, it covered them to mid-calf.  I was surprised at how much difference it made. My coffee even seemed warmer.

“Zat better?” he asked. He looked like it really mattered to him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, it helps a lot. I appreciate it.”

He nodded as if he was pleased. “You want a scone?” he asked.

I hadn’t noticed before, but he had a bakery bag sitting on the bench next to him.

“Um, no, thanks,” I told him, trying to smile a little. He was being so nice that he was making me nervous. This wouldn’t be so weird back home, but in New York, it was downright bizarre.

“I got two,” he continued, “but I ate one, and I’m not hungry any more. They’re good.”

“Yeah, thanks, that’s okay.” I’d heard stories about guys who buy a girl a drink or food and put drugs in it, and then kidnap her or something. They were probably all urban legends, but why take a chance?

He took a scone out of the bakery bag. It looked like an ordinary scone, but I couldn’t exactly examine it for hypodermic marks or anything. He held it out to me.

I shook my head.

“You missed lunch,” he said.

I frowned at him. “Why do you think that?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t you?” He pronounced it _dint_. He broke the scone in half and held out both pieces, one in each hand. “Half? You pick which one.” He was obviously familiar with the same urban legends I was.

That made me smile, and I took the half in his left hand, then waited for him to take a bite of the other one. When he did, I bit the piece I had in my hand, and it was really, really good, maybe the best scone I had ever tasted. I tried to see the name on the bakery bag, but I couldn’t make it out. 

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” I said, trying not to shove the rest of the scone into my mouth.

He took another bite. “Just keeping you company,” he said, “and proving I didn’t bake a roofie in it or anything.” He raised his eyebrows and held up his hands in a comic I-surrender move. “I gotta tell you, even if I knew where to get a roofie, I don’t know how to bake, so you’re probably safe.”

I couldn’t not laugh at that, and I finished the scone gratefully. “So do you just hang out in the park looking for girls who are cold and hungry?” I asked.

He gave me a sideways look, and I saw that his eyes were hazel under thick lashes. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Oh, okay.” If he didn’t want to talk, I wasn’t going to push it. I’d just been trying to make a joke in response to his.

“You’re the one I found today,” he said.

I looked around the park, where I could see people who were clearly worse off than I was.

“Well, that makes me seem kind of pathetic,” I muttered.

“No, never that,” he said, sounding so sincere that it startled me.

I looked at him, frowning. “I don’t know you, do I?” I asked, suddenly fearful that he was someone I’d met at a party or something. I couldn’t imagine forgetting that smile, but maybe I had.

“No.”

“Well, then, don’t assume I’m not a loser.” I realized how stupid that sounded the minute it left my mouth, but it was too late.

He gave me an odd look. “No assumptions,” he said lightly. He looked over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

I smiled at him. In spite of trying not to, I liked him. I folded up his scarf and handed it to him. “Thank you,” I said. “Really, thank you so much.”

He took the scarf and threw it around his neck. “No problem,” he said, and gave me a quick wave. I barely had time to blink before he disappeared into the crowd of passers-by.

*          *          *          *          *

I saw him again about a week later in another part of town. I had been to another audition, and I thought it had gone well, but I’d have to wait to see if I’d get a callback. I was walking fast because it was still freezing cold, reviewing the entire audition in my mind, thinking of other ways I might have read a line, and agonizing over alternatives that might have been better. _Too late now,_ I thought.

And then there he was right in front of me, as if he’d come out of nowhere, walking toward me, wearing the same scarf and the gray jacket.

“Hey, red-skirt girl,” he said, breaking into that smile.

“White-scarf guy,” I responded. I was astonished that he’d recognized me. I was wearing jeans and boots instead of the miniskirt, and I had a knit hat pulled down over my hair – not that my medium-brown, medium-length hair would be memorable in any case.

He stopped walking, so I did too, feeling awkward and wondering how in a city of eight and a half million people, I happened to run into the same guy twice in eight days.

“What are you doing around here?” he asked.

I waved my hand vaguely in the direction I’d come from. “I had an audition.”

He nodded. He didn’t say any of the usual things like, “You’re an actor?” or, worse, “ _You’re_ an actor?” Just nodded, and then after a minute, “How do you think it went?” It sounded like it was something he might be familiar with.

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I’ve been second-guessing myself since I left it.”

“Yeah.” He looked over my head so intently that I turned around to see if there was somebody behind me. There wasn’t, other than the usual sidewalk crowd. “You wanna get coffee, get out of the cold for a few minutes?” he asked, smiling again.

“Yeah, okay. That would be nice.”

There was a Starbucks on the next block, so we walked there. As we entered, he fished in his wallet for a Starbucks card and handed it to me. “Listen, I need to use the facilities,” he said, nodding toward the rest room. “I want a Grande Americano, leave room at the top, and a blueberry scone.”

“I can …” I started, opening my purse.

He gave me an exasperated look. “Come on, I’m good for it.”

That made me laugh, so I let him buy me a Grande Lattè and one of those little three-packs of madeleines.

When I turned around from ordering, he was already back, pulling out a chair at a small table by the window. I waited at the counter for our drinks, since the place wasn’t that crowded, and then joined him at the table. He picked up his Grande and took the lid off.

“Have to go fix it up,” he explained, and went to add what looked like a lot of cream, sugar, and a sprinkle of cocoa. “You need anything else in yours?” he asked when he came back.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Not five sugars?”

Had I mentioned that to him last time? I couldn’t remember saying anything about it, but I must have. I shook my head. “Only when coffee is all I’m having for lunch.”

“Not the best lunch when you have such a physically demanding job,” he said.

I looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Acting, dancing – it’s all physical. Can’t get by on caffeine and sugar.”

I snorted. “Thanks, dad. Anyway, who says I dance?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m trying to. Audition, you know.” I drank some of the coffee, trying not to sound negative.

“What was it for?”

“Ensemble, for a revival tour of _Guys and Dolls._ ”

“Huh,” he said noncommittally.

“What, you don’t like _Guys and Dolls?_ It’s a great show.”

“Oh, yeah, it is. I … uh … were you auditioning to be a Hot Box girl?”

“If I’m lucky.” I didn’t care how cute his smile was, he was pissing me off with his judgey attitude. “I don’t think I have a shot at being cast as Sergeant Sarah Brown.”

“Well, no,” he agreed, “you’re not a soprano.”

Seriously, he was kind of weirding me out. “And you know that because …?”

He looked confused for a second, and then said hastily, “Oh, I can tell from your speaking voice.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, really, I … uh … my choir teacher in high school said I have a really good ear.”

“High school choir teacher?” I asked skeptically.

He nodded, looking completely innocent.

“Well, okay, you’re right, but anyway, they’ll cast people with more experience than me for the leads. I’d be really, really lucky to get a part at all.”

“You may not get a part in this show,” he said, “but you’ll get the right part.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When you audition for the role you’re meant to have, you’ll get it.”

“More advice from your high school choir teacher?” Come to think of it, he looked like he was barely out of high school. “Are you still in high school?” I asked suspiciously.

He laughed out loud. I tried not to like the sound of his laugh, but it was warm and appealing.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m older than I look.”

I waited for him to add more information, like his actual age or his name or something, but he didn’t. He took a bite of his scone and then drank some more coffee.

“Anyway,” I said, “I’ll have to stop auditioning soon if I don’t get something. I can’t afford to live in New York with what I make waitressing.”

“Oh, no,” he protested, leaning forward and putting his hand on mine. “Don’t give up. You’re so talented. You followed your dreams all this way. You have to give yourself a chance.”

I yanked my hand away. “Okay, first of all, you have no idea if I’m talented or not, and second, all that _follow your dreams_ shit is pretty lame if you can’t afford to eat.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back. “I didn’t mean to encroach.” _Encroach?_ Jesus. “But, really, I can tell that you’re talented just from talking to you. You’re bright, animated, expressive. It’s just a question of the right part, not of your talent.”

“Yeah, it’s nice of you to say that, but …”

“It’s true!” he insisted.

“Okay, sure, listen, you’ve been very kind, buying me coffee and all, but you don’t really know anything about me, so maybe you should save your advice for somebody else.”

I hated that he looked hurt, his hazel eyes wide and serious in his freckled face. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was trying to help.”

I sighed. “It’s okay. I get that, and I understand you mean well. Just … we’re not actually what I’d call friends, so maybe back off a little.”

I swear to God, he looked like he was about to cry, and I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy. He nodded, and his curls bounced adorably. He held out his hand, and I took it.

“I know it’s not appropriate to say good luck to theater people, but can I say that I wish you well?”

“Sure, of course,” I said.

He didn’t even smile, just stared for a few seconds with those clear hazel eyes, then shook my hand and left.

*          *          *          *          *

I didn’t get the _Guys and Dolls_ part. They wanted somebody taller for the Hot Box girl, and they had enough women for the ensemble. I took on a couple more shifts at Chili’s in the hope of maybe making enough money to live with only one other person, preferably one who didn’t yell all the time. I went to more auditions, but nothing happened except that the weather got a little warmer. I began to think about giving myself a deadline: if I don’t get an acting job in, say, three months, I’ll just give it up and go back to East Hopeless, Iowa and … and what? Waitress in the Chili’s there? I’d never wanted to do anything but be on stage. Maybe if I set a deadline, it would motivate me. I had another one of those Future-Me scenes in my head, me being interviewed on some entertainment show. _“I’d given myself a three-month deadline,” I would say, “and then, two months and twenty-five days later, I got the phone call that changed my life. It was meant to be.”_

Future Me was very successful; Present Me not so much. On March first, I set my deadline. If I hadn’t been offered a paying role in something by June first, I would leave New York City, say goodbye to all those dreams, and find something else to do. The thought of it filled me with despair, but it was the only sensible thing to do.

It was the end of April, and I was on my way to an audition when our paths crossed again, literally. I was crossing the street one way, and he stepped in front of me, not even seeing me.

“Hi,” I said, touching his arm to get his attention.

He turned toward me, and his face lit up like I was his long-lost best friend.

“Hi! Oh, my God, it’s great to see you.” We were standing in the middle of the street, so he put his hand under my elbow and propelled me to the sidewalk. “How are you?”

“I’m good, fine.” It was stupid that I didn’t know his name, but now would be an awkward time to ask.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m on my way to an audition, actually,” I said.

His smile got even brighter, if possible. I’d told myself that my memory had exaggerated his attractiveness, but nope, he was every bit as cute as I remembered.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“Sure. It’s only three more blocks, and I’ve got plenty of time.” I started back across the street, and he laughed, realizing he’d turned me the wrong way.

“So what’s the audition for?” he asked, looking really interested.

“It’s for a new show. I guess you’d call it a historical musical, maybe.” In all honesty, the way the show had been explained to me sounded insane, but an audition was an audition.

“Like _1776_ or something?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think it’s much like that. You’ve heard of Lin-Manuel Miranda, right? The guy who wrote _In the Heights?”_

“Yeah, sure. Didn’t that win a Tony?”

I nodded. “Yeah, for best musical. Anyway, Lin-Manuel Miranda has written this one too, so that’s a good thing. I mean, we know he’s got talent, but this is the story of Alexander Hamilton.”

“The guy on the ten-dollar bill?”

“Right! That’s exactly what everybody says. I looked him up on Wikipedia, and he was the first Secretary of the Treasury, which doesn’t exactly sound like thrilling plot material. He died in a duel, so maybe that’s the focus of the show? I’ve got no idea, really. A friend of mine who knows somebody who knows Lin-Manuel told me it’s a sung-through rap and hip-hop opera, but that just seems ridiculous. I mean, even if somebody wrote that, who’d go see it? There’s got to be more to it than that if he’s got enough backing to put it on, but I have no idea what it’s going to be like.”

“It could be interesting. Didn’t Hamilton help write the Constitution, too?”

I shrugged. “Maybe? But even if he did, please tell me how a hip-hop song about the Constitution would work.”

I glanced over at him, and he was smiling. He caught me looking at him, and his smile got wider. “Who knows? Maybe the show will be a smash hit and you’ll be a break-out star.”

I laughed. “Right. You know, last time I saw you, I thought you were a little pushy with the follow-your-dreams advice, but that’s really over the top.”

He gave me a sideways look and said, “I’m sorry about that. Sometimes when I feel strongly about something, it’s hard for me not to push. I know I made you feel uncomfortable, but I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I didn’t mean to.”

I had long regretted getting annoyed with him last time, so it was easy to reassure him that there were no hard feelings. We reached the audition location, and I turned to say goodbye to him.

“Would it be okay to wait with you?” he asked.

I looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know how long I’ll have to be here. They usually call people in random groups. It could be hours before I even get in.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t have anything planned this afternoon.”

“You seem to have a lot of free time.”

He laughed. “You might say that.”

“You’ll probably be pretty bored,” I told him.

“I doubt it, but if I get bored, I have something to read.” He pulled a tattered paperback out of his jacket pocket.

I squinted at the title, hard to read on the worn cover. _“The Federalist Papers?”_ It sounded vaguely familiar, but I had no idea what it was. “Who wrote it?” I asked, trying to sound interested.

“James Madison, John Jay, and … uh … Alexander Hamilton.”

“What?” I grabbed the book out of his hand and stared at it. “You had this in your pocket the whole time you were pretending you didn’t know any more about Alexander Hamilton than I did.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe that was rude, but I didn’t want to show off.”

“Are you a history major or something?”

“Not exactly, but I like history.”

“Okay, can you give me any tips on Hamilton that might help with the audition?”

“I doubt it. I mean, I know a little about him, but you won’t be auditioning to play Alexander Hamilton, will you?”

We took the elevator upstairs to the audition space and found a waiting room full of aspiring actors around my age or maybe a little older, some of them practicing lines, some doing stretches, some just sitting playing games on their phones. How many would they be casting for the ensemble? A dozen? Fifteen, maybe? There were at least forty people in the room, and this was only one of the ensemble auditions they were holding. My heart sank. I really think if I’d been alone, I would have walked out, but I figured he’d start with the friendly-puppy cheerleading again, and I didn’t want to make him feel bad.

“Well,” I sighed gloomily, “don’t blame me for wasting your day.”

“Never,” he said, smiling. “Come on, there are a couple of seats over there. They’re the lucky chairs.”

“Oh, really? How do you know that?” The empty chairs looked exactly like all the other chairs in the room, gray and a little grubby. “And if they’re the lucky chairs, why are they still empty?”

“Because nobody else knows they’re lucky. Trust me on this.”

He was making me laugh, and that was probably a good thing. At least I wasn’t going to sit there thinking about everything that could go wrong and worrying myself into an anxiety attack. There were a few cases of water on a table, and I picked up a couple of bottles on my way to the “lucky chairs.” I offered him one.

“No, thanks, I’m good, but you drink it. Gotta stay hydrated, right?”

That was practically the performers’ mantra. I nodded and took out my phone. “You want to put your number in?” I asked, _finally_.

He shrugged and shook his head, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a _phone?”_ A twenty-something guy in New York City? It was way easier to believe that he didn’t want me to have his number. “Okay.” I shoved my phone back in my purse, and I guess I didn’t look too happy.

“No, really,” he said earnestly, his eyes wide. “I’ve never had one. I … um … I like personal contact with people, talking to them face-to-face, like we are right now.”

“But how do you … how do you do … anything?” I waved my hand in a gesture meant to signify “all 21st century communication.” “How do you stay in touch with people? How does anybody contact you?”

“I manage. It’s not that hard. I mean, look, we keep running into each other without calling, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s pretty unlikely.”

“And yet, it’s happened, so here we are.”

“Okay, well, then, I guess if you want to talk to me again, just wander around the city and hope for the best.”

“I’ll do that,” he grinned. “It’s worked so far.”

He didn’t seem crazy, really, but eccentric might be a good word to describe him. I mean, who willingly goes without a phone? And the fact that we had met up three times was beyond bizarre. Coincidences like that didn’t happen, and yet, as he said, there we were.

“Do you need to practice or anything?” he asked, changing the subject. “Could I help?”

I opened my portfolio and looked at the papers without enthusiasm. “Probably not.”

“What’s your song?”

“’Nothing Stops Another Day’ from _Ghost,_ ” I said doubtfully. I wasn’t at all sure that was a good choice.

He was. “That’s perfect!”

“You know the show?”

“Oh, sure. I think it’s underappreciated, and that song is exactly right for you.”

I couldn’t help but smile, even though he was talking nonsense again. “You don’t have any lukewarm opinions about anything, do you?”

He thought about that for a minute and then said, “No, I guess I don’t.”

“But seriously, you think the song will work?”

“Absolutely. All the other altos are doing ‘On My Own’ from _Les Mis_ , and the casting directors are so tired of it that they fall asleep two seconds after the girl opens her mouth.”

He was talking as if he was familiar with the audition process.

“Are you an actor?” I asked him.

He laughed. “Me? Oh, hell, no.”

“The how do you know stuff like audition songs?”

“Oh, come on, I live in New York, everybody knows some actors.”

I was trying to decide if that was true when a young woman with straight dark hair came into the room and called eight names, none of them mine. I counted the remaining hopefuls and estimated that, assuming half an hour for each group, we could easily be there another three hours.

“You sure you want to stay?” I asked.

“Sure. Anyway, I have to stay to make sure you stay.”

That almost made me jump. “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about giving up when you saw how many people were here.”

“Now that’s creepy,” I told him.

“Am I right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

I could feel myself blushing. He didn’t even care if I answered because he already knew. He just gave me a hundred-watt version of the smile and said, “See, I can be useful.”

“Who are you, anyway?” I demanded, abandoning any pretense at good manners. “You pop up and just _happen_ to run into me in different places in the city, and half the time, you know what I’m thinking. It’s more than a little strange.”

He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I’m just a guy.”

“A guy with no phone.”

“Right.”

“How about a name? Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name.”

I waited. Nothing.

“Okay, fine. What are you, in the witness protection program or something?”

He snorted a half-laugh. “No, but that’s pretty funny. Come on, let’s talk about something else.”

I looked at the floor and thought. I really did like having him there, and even though he was over the top sometimes, I liked his encouragement. I had no idea why he didn’t want to tell me his name. Maybe he was part of a famous family and didn’t want to deal with the baggage. A Kennedy? He was cute enough. A Trump? Oh, _hell_ , no. If I made an issue of it, he’d probably end up leaving, and the truth was, I wanted him to stay.

“All right, mystery man, I’ll play along. You will tell me eventually, though, right?”

His face was serious, his beautiful hazel eyes completely free of guile. “I promise.”

“So maybe you can tell me something about Alexander Hamilton?”

*          *          *          *          *

I was in the third group to be called, along with five other girls and two guys. They let me sing quite a bit of my song, which made me feel good. I was used to getting cut off after a couple of bars. A choreographer named Morgan put us through some dance moves, which were challenging, but nothing I couldn’t do, and then we sight-read what I guessed was a song from the show. It was different from what I expected, but beautiful, with intricate harmonies.

When we were done, the guy who seemed to be in charge asked me and one of the guys if we could stay and gave the others the standard thank-you speech.

Could I stay? _Could I stay?_ Oh, my God, they weren’t done with me.

“They want me to stay,” I babbled, practically shaking with excitement. “They want to see me again today.”

He was almost as excited as I was. “See? I told you! Here, drink some water! And breathe. Don’t forget to breathe!”

I started laughing, since I couldn’t exactly drink the water he was holding out to me and breathe at the same time. A couple of people in nearby seats gave me some snide looks, but fuck them. I hadn’t been sent home. I sat down, took a deep breath, and then sipped some water.

“The music for the show is good,” I said. “At least, I think that’s what they gave us. The lyrics sounded like it would fit in with the Revolutionary War theme – ‘Rise up.’”

“That was the title?”

“I don’t know. We just had to do a few lines together so they could hear us sing different parts. The music wasn’t rap, though.” I stopped and thought about it. “It didn’t sound like typical Broadway music either.” I tried to remember it accurately, and sang a few lines softly. It got me a few more annoyed looks. What was the matter with them? I mean, we were there for auditions for a musical. Was it so strange that someone might be singing?

It was almost two more hours before they had finished all the auditions, and there were seven of us left, three guys and four girls. My heart was pounding. This time it was the guy in charge who stepped into the room. “Thank you all very much for your patience,” he said. “If you’ll come back here now, we’ll run through some other things with you.”

I turned to look at my – what? My friend? My own personal fan? He squeezed my hand. “You’ll blow them all away,” he whispered, and I followed the others into the studio.

They kept us a lot longer this time, running us over the same material again and again. I knew they were likely to pick only one or two of us, and all I could do was give it my best shot. They finally said we’d get a phone call within the next few days and sent us out.

The waiting room was empty. I looked around twice, but there was no one there. Maybe he’d just gone to the rest room, I thought, but as I walked back to the “lucky chairs,” I saw something on the seat he’d been sitting in. It was his beat-up copy of _The Federalist Papers_ , with the cover folded back. On the inside of the cover he had written in beautiful cursive: _I’m sorry I had to leave. I know you did great. See you soon._

I clutched the book and started to cry.

“Hey, you okay?” asked a voice behind me. It was one of the other girls who had gone through the final audition with me, a pretty Latina girl with big brown eyes.

I fumbled in my purse for a tissue and wiped my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just a little upset because my friend had to leave, and I wanted to tell him about how it went. No big deal.” I tried to convince myself that was true.

“Your friend?” she asked curiously.

“Yeah, the guy who was sitting here with me all day.” She must have seen him, especially toward the end of the day when there were so few people in the room.

“Sitting there?” she asked, pointing to the “lucky chair.”

“Right,” I said, a little irritated. “Cute guy, long curly hair, gray sweater, white scarf?”

She shook her head, staring at me with a strange expression. “Nobody was sitting there. Look, that chair’s broken. It was empty all day.” She was pointing to the chair, and I realized then that it was missing a leg. While it had enough support not to fall over, nobody could have sat in it. I stood, staring, even after she left, holding onto the tattered book for dear life.

It was dusk, and I started walking in the direction of my apartment, thinking vaguely that I’d walk till I got tired and then take the subway the rest of the way. I must have been wrong about the chairs, I told myself. We must have been sitting in the next row. But I knew that wasn’t true. I knew exactly where we’d been sitting, and that was where he’d left the book for me. I wouldn’t let go of the book for fear it would disappear as he had. Maybe the leg had fallen off the chair while I was in the final audition, and that’s why he had left. No, that didn’t make sense; he would have just moved to another chair. And the girl had said nobody had been sitting there. I thought about the strange looks I had gotten from other people. Had they thought I was talking to myself? That was ridiculous. He had been there, he had been with me all day, keeping me company and encouraging me. We had talked and laughed, and he had told me some things about Alexander Hamilton. He made me feel confident. What was it he’d whispered to me right before the final audition? _You’ll blow them all away._

I realized I was crying again and that it was now quite dark out. It was a busy neighborhood, and there were plenty of people and lights around, so I decided to walk the rest of the way home. I was dreading having to face Annie or Megan, or, worse, both of them, with my eyes red from crying. I told myself to just calm down, that there had to be some perfectly logical explanation for his disappearance. Anyway, his note said that he would see me soon. I tried not to wonder how that was going to happen if he didn’t know my name or number, but it had happened before.

Just my luck, Annie and Megan were screaming at each other in the kitchen as I unlocked the door. Unfortunately, they heard me come in and moved their battle into the living room, both of them trying to drag me into it. I mumbled that I had a headache and fled to my tiny bedroom. I wasn’t lying about the headache, and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since half a chicken salad sandwich at around eleven thirty. Too bad, I couldn’t face the War of the Roommates tonight, so I would just get up early and eat breakfast. I slept with the book under my pillow, keeping one hand on it all night.

It was quiet when I woke up, and I was able to have a bagel and a cup of tea and escape the apartment before the next battle broke out. I was working the lunch shift at Chili’s, so I left at ten. It was still silent, and it occurred to me that if Annie had actually killed Megan or vice versa, I wouldn’t know, and how would I explain that to the investigating officer? _Well, yes, Detective Green, I was at home from eight o’clock at night until ten o’clock in the morning, but I didn’t see anything. Yes, I did hear them quarreling, but they quarreled a lot, and I had no reason to believe …_ Future Me was conducting herself with great composure in the presence of Detective Green, who looked exactly like Jesse L. Martin. Go figure.

By the time I had run through the entire hypothetical murder investigation scene in my head, I was at Chili’s. I had brought the copy of _The Federalist Papers_ with me, crammed into my purse, and I checked the message again when I got there. I had an irrational – or maybe not so irrational – fear that it would vanish, but it was still there. Where would he even have learned that beautiful cursive writing that looked almost like calligraphy? He was a man of mystery in so many ways.

My shift didn’t start until eleven, so I chatted for a few minutes with Diana and Josh, who’d be working the same hours, and then went to the ladies room to pull my hair up and put on some make-up. I was rubbing a speck of lipstick off my teeth when my phone rang, and I answered automatically. I listened numbly to the caller’s voice and agreed politely to everything he said, and it wasn’t until after he hung up that I reacted. I ran out into the restaurant area, which fortunately wasn’t crowded at that early hour and grabbed Diana, jumping up and down and screaming, “I got the part! Igotthepart!Igotthepart!Igotthepart!” Diana started jumping and shrieking with me, and then Josh gave me a congratulatory kiss, and Julio and Ashley and Dev all cheered. I was crying and shaking, and Macy, the manager, made me sit down. “You can take the day off if you want,” she said, but I told her no, I couldn’t afford it. Everybody laughed because I was going to be on Broadway – _Broadway!_ – but I wasn’t getting Broadway wages yet, so I’d need to keep working at Chili’s for a while longer. I managed to calm myself down, and then I had to go back to the ladies room and wash my face and do my make-up all over again. The message on the book cover was still there, and I read it again. _See you soon._

Somehow I knew that he’d be there when I got out at four, and there he was, right by the door, his smile outshining the sun, and his arms open. I cried on his shoulder, and he was right there, as solid as the ground under my feet, I swear.

“I knew you’d do it,” he said, and I didn’t even ask how he knew. He put his arm around me, and we began to walk toward the park. “When do rehearsals start?”

“Two weeks from Friday.” I had my arm around his waist, and I leaned my head on his shoulder. He pulled me over to a bench in the park, and we sat down, close together this time. He looked down at me, and for some reason, I thought there was a trace of sadness in his smile.

“How did you know?” I asked then. “Really, how do you know things?”

He shrugged and looked off into the trees. “I just do.”

I took a breath. “I’m going to ask you a question that may sound completely insane.”

“Okay.”

“Can everybody see you?”

He gave that rueful half-laugh. “Somebody blew my cover, huh?”

“Am I hallucinating?” I asked, beginning to feel frightened.

“No!” he grabbed my hand, and his eyes were filled with concern. “No, of course not. You’re fine. You’re amazing, in fact.” He brushed back a strand of hair from my face. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Could you try?”

“Okay.” He stared into the trees for a while again, and I began to think he wasn’t going to say anything more. Then he looked at me. “I came to help you,” he said.

“Why?”

“Well, weren’t you having a pretty bad time? Weren’t you discouraged and feeling like you should just give up?”

“Well, yeah, but people feel like that all the time, and nobody … um … like you comes to help them.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“Well, did you tell anybody about me?”

“No, not really.”

“Did anybody else see me?”

“Apparently not.”

“So how would you know if there were more of us around?”

I thought about it. “Are there?”

“Oh, yeah. Thousands on any given day.”

I looked around nervously, and he laughed. “I’m the only one you have to deal with.”

“You know it’s pretty hard to believe, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So are you … an angel?” Probably the most ridiculous question I’d ever asked.

He raised his eyebrows at me. “That’s such a loaded word. People expect wings, and harps, and all that other shit, you know?”

I started laughing a little unsteadily. “Angels swear?”

He grinned. “Fuck, yeah.”

I laughed again, and then felt like I was about to start crying. “But you’re so _real._ ”

He nodded. “For you.”

“I can touch you.”

“Yeah.”

“But no one else can?”

He shook his head.

“Now what?” I asked him, even though I was sure I knew the answer.

“I can stay for a little while longer,” he told me, lacing his fingers through mine.

“And then you have to go?”

He nodded.

“And I won’t ever see you again?”

He turned back to me, and his smile lit up his face. “Oh, yeah, you’ll see me again, but it will be a while. It will seem like a long time to you.”

“But not to you?”

“Time is different for us.”

That made as much sense as anything else in this whole crazy story.

“Do you know everything that will happen to me?” I asked him.

“Maybe not every detail,” he said, “but in general, yeah.”

“And?”

He laughed. “I already told you.”

“What?”

“You’ll blow them all away.”

That was enough. That was more than enough.

“Thank you,” I said. I was crying again.

He pulled me closer to him. “You’re welcome.” He was looking up at the clear blue sky, and then he sighed and put his hand on my cheek to turn my face to his. When he kissed me, it felt like electricity, not like a shock, but as if pure light coursed from him into me. “I have to go,” he said.

“Wait!” I begged, hanging onto him. “You promised to tell me your name.”

He smiled, and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. “It’s Pip.”

“Pip.” I needed to say it out loud.

“It’s a nickname. It’s what my mother always called me.”

I nodded. I couldn’t talk anymore. He kissed me one more time, filling me with his light, and then he was gone.

*          *          *          *          *

It wasn’t until we were well into rehearsal that I knew who he was. There’s a song in the second act called “Blow Us All Away,” and as soon as I heard it, I understood. I was part of the ensemble, but I had a line in that number. As Dolly, I looked admiringly at the nineteen-year-old Philip Hamilton and said, “God, you’re a fox.” With the picture I held in my mind, it was the easiest line I ever said.

Well, unless you’ve been hiding under a rock for the last few years, you’ve heard all about _Hamilton_ and Lin-Manuel Miranda. The show has been described as a cultural phenomenon, and Lin has picked up every award there is. I stayed with the show for more than two years, and you've probably seen me on TV. My career is doing well, and when I go back to East Hopeless, Iowa now, I’m a pretty big deal. I wouldn’t have done all this without him. He kept me from giving up. I still have the paperback copy of _The Federalist Papers_. The message is still there, and I read it every day. It still says _See you soon_.

If you’ve seen _Hamilton,_ you know how it ends, with the heart-rending number “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?” If you haven’t though, if you’ve only listened to the music, you may not be aware that at the very end, Eliza walks forward and looks up, looks beyond the balcony and the ceiling and the theater itself, and her face lights up with joy, and she gasps.

I know what she sees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this one, which is quite different from what I usually write. Tell me if you do, or even if you don't. I love hearing from readers.  
> Have a wonderful New Year, everyone!


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